How can I be true contortion without
mirrors and no distortion? I’ve never
met a giant yet, who can fit himself
into a butterfly net without hauling out
the special glasses. Don’t believe your
eyes, do believe your asses. Don’t be-
lieve the tale, do believe the toil, as
the heart believes the rapier, though
the mouth calls it a foil. As the head
believes the lie, the legs have started
running. If I made you a sandwich
would that prove me cunning? If I
made you a deer, would you ask for
bigger antlers? If I made you a handle
would you ask to choose your handlers?
I hew you as a limber yeoman. I screw
you as a TV showman. I slew the fatal
arrow’s bowman. I melt you down to
a slimmer snowman. And this proves
what? That I can bemuse, that you’ll
drink it down, if I popped the bottle
of the ruse, one of the De Chevalier
1962’s – a vintage year for moos and
muse.